It was a night of front porches.
Diane and I have an ancient oak swing on the porch of our building, and from half a block away I could see that it was moving to and fro in a tight arc. A solitary person sat smack in the middle of the seat.
I was guessing it was a homeless man. I pulled five bucks from my wallet, remembered what day it was, and replaced the five with a twenty. I held the bill folded in my hand. In my Thanksgiving fantasy the man would use the money to sit at a nice table in a nice restaurant and treat himself to a bountiful plate of turkey and stuffing.
The porch was in shadows. From the end of the driveway I couldn’t make out the age or gender of the visitor.
Nor did I recognize the voice when he said, “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight. You should be home with your family. I know I wish I was.”
I stopped walking. “Excuse me. Who are you? Do I know you?”
The swing stopped moving, and the man stood. He was still in the shadows, but I could tell that he wasn’t tall. “I brought you something. An explanation.” He waved some paper at me. An envelope, maybe. “I thought it might help save somebody. I was just going to stuff it through the mail slot when I saw your car. Felt the engine; it was warm. I thought I’d take a chance that you’d be coming back.”
“I still don’t know who you are.” I hadn’t moved. I remained right where I’d been on the narrow driveway. Ten yards of drought-starved lawn and a border of unhappy euonymus separated me from the stranger on the porch.
He moved forward inch by inch, and with each inch the light from the streetlamps seemed to crawl up his body like water rising in a flood.
As the light moved up from his shoulders and began to paint his face, I said, “Oh my God.”
“Hi,” Sterling Storey said. “What a week it’s been, huh?”
What did I think?
I thought,Catch me.